One pot lurched toward the railing. “Got you!” Vivaan cried, clutching it with both hands. Vivek caught the other side, laughing as cool drops flew into their faces and speckled his glasses. Together they shuffled from pot to pot, straightening, turning, rescuing each wobbly little plant.

By the time the rain softened, the rooftop smelled fresh and earthy. Leaves shone bright green. Even the cracked old pots looked alive. Vivaan grinned up at his father. “Papa,” he said softly, “our garden likes showers.”